


Hints

by Jubalii



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Just something cute, Kissing, Safe For Work, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 06:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14207067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: prompt: 'you want me'They've been taking things slow, but now the hints have started dropping....





	Hints

**Author's Note:**

> from a prompt on my tumblr
> 
> Anon had referenced young imector, but the more I thought about it the more I realized this story was cuter post-canon.   
> If you're reading this, anon, and I let you down... I'm sorry! q_q

Imelda had been dropping hints for a solid week.

Héctor was a fool—he knew he was. But even _he_ could tell when a woman wanted something from him. He’d had plenty of flirting young ladies in the Land of the Dead come to him in his earlier years, before he started getting all gross and shabby. He’d turned them away as politely as he could, nervous laughter punctuating his insistence that he was married and waiting for his wife to join him.

They’d been taking things slow, _torturously_ slow in some instances. They’d both hemmed and hawed about his moving into the house for months; eventually the twins invited him to sleep on the sofa overnight after a good time and he’d just… never left. It had taken two full weeks to graduate from the sofa to a room of his own. He’d tried to repay their kindness with shoemaking, but he was about as hopeless at _that_ as a man could be. He’d been certain that Victoria would be physically ill when he showed her his first completed pair of ‘shoes’. The look on her face had been mirrored, in degrees, by the rest of the family. Even Imelda had barely managed a grimace, taking him aside to show him what he could improve on: everything.

Both he and Imelda knew the importance of easing into their relationship. It was virtually impossible to be what they once were—time had saw to that. But it didn’t mean they couldn’t create something new, and that’s what they both worked towards. Long conversations turned to playful banter, which turned to short dates, then _long_ dates. They’d slowly grown more used to each other, especially in these lighter, bonier bodies. He could pick her up easily, but it also meant if she moved too fast she accidentally took a piece of him along for the ride; he’d never fully recovered from almost being Forgotten, and his bones were looser than the average skeleton’s.

He couldn’t make shoes, so he made what he was best at: music. Who needed a radio in the shop when he was there, seated beside the table with the afternoon sun pouring across his lap? He was always willing to honor any request they threw at him, their tools falling into easy rhythm with his sounds as he belted out all the old favorites while strumming the guitar they’d bought him as a family. He was back to songwriting too, with a few new compositions ready to try out when the mood struck.

Imelda often watched him from her place near the end of the table, where she settled accounts or picked up the slack on some of the larger orders. She liked watching him play—always had, for as long as they’d been together—but he’d noticed a certain gleam to her eye lately. He hadn’t missed the way she looked him over from head to toe, gaze lingering just a little too long at times with a smile he _certainly_ remembered from the living world.

And her song choices sometimes bordered the line between innocence and a blatant suggestion. _Play this one again_ , she’d say, her tone soft with the barest hint of a plea. He’d never been able to say no to her, but when she spoke like _that_ , well— he’d sell his own soul to appease her. Then, when he was through she’d rise, passing by on her way to get more leather or a different last, her hip brushing his and her fingers running absently over the top of his head; a reward, perhaps, for indulging her one more time. It was nearly enough to make him slide from the chair and onto the floor, a quivering puddle of bones. Maybe he was deprived.

He recognized all her advances… he just didn’t know what to _do_ with them.

 Even their courtship days, with its rigid system of chastity, was easier to navigate then this— _this_. It wasn’t as if he could just stand up, throw the guitar to the ground, and shout ‘ _hey mamá, ditch the shoes and come with me_!’ He’d never throw an instrument to the ground, _ever_. Besides, that was the one surefire way to get some gentleman’s size thirteen ostrich-skin boot hammered against his skull.    

So he waited on her, the same way he’d been waiting for a hundred years. He played, he sang, he smiled at her burning gazes and always, always sang the songs she wanted. He gave her what he could, in supplication for his own ignorance. And she took it, but that didn’t mean she _stopped._

Even tonight, as he sat at the kitchen table with his guitar. He was working on a new song and almost had it—he was so close! –but the last chorus eluded him to the point of frustration. He plucked at the strings, lost in his own world of chords and stanzas, oblivious to what was going on around him. At least, until the hands on his shoulders shook him out of it again. He jumped, startled, and heard a soft laugh behind him. It was enough to make him freeze, a deer caught the headlights.

“Imelda!” He cleared his throat, craning his head to look up at her. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I noticed.” She looked pointedly at the clock hanging above the window, the hands barely visible in the dim light from the single bulb over the table. “Isn’t it getting late? You’ll keep everyone up.”

“I didn’t realize the time,” he apologized, starting to put the guitar on the table. She stopped him with one finger on the neck of his beloved instrument, leaning her ribcage against the back of his skull. “I-Imelda?” 

“Play something for me, Héctor.” He gulped. There was that tone again.

“A-Any requests?” She hummed softly, fingers running through his hair. His eyes drifted closed, enjoying the soft tug as she worked through the tangles. She scratched his skull through the wig and he melted internally, thanking his lucky stars that this woman chose _him_. He was definitely deprived. Maybe just depraved.

“Sing _Un Poco Loco_.” That was a new one, at least recently. “The way you used to,” she added, leaning down to whisper in his ear. Well, he didn’t _have_ an ear, but the sensation was still the same. One hand continued to play in his hair, the other sliding slowly up and down along his clavicle. _I’m dying, I’m dying again…._ He wanted to lean back, to relax into her touch and enjoy every blessed moment of it, but she had requested something of him. He had to obey. 

“Of course.” His voice was already breathless, but he took up the guitar and readied himself before plucking the first few notes.

“ _What color is the sky, ay mi amor, ay mi amor_?” The words were hoarse, his fingers shaking as he found the tune. Ernesto had popularized it, but he’d also bastardized it. It was never meant to be sung _quite_ so fast, always in beat to his own quickened heartbeat. Whenever he thought of her, his organs had pumped the tempo to a song only she could bring to life.

_“I tell you that it’s red, ay mi amor, ay mi amor_.” Her hand slid from his clavicle to his sternum, tracing little spirals along the bone. He nearly flew out of his seat, fingers fumbling on the strings. Oh, she knew _exactly_ what she did to him! It wasn’t even fair; how was he supposed to level the playing field?

“ _W-w-where should I put my shoes, ay mi amor, ay mi amor_?” His eyes jumped to the dark workroom and back. He didn’t dare look down at her hands, certain that he’d lose it if he did—exactly _what_ he would lose, though…. He focused all his energy into singing, his voice jumping like a teenage boy’s. Maybe he _was_ signing it the way he used to, after all.

“ _I say: put them on your head! Ay mi amor, ay mi amor_ —” She purred straight into his ear now, warm and rich. It set him on fire.

“ _Y-you make me un poco loco_ ,” he managed to choke out, hitting the wrong note as she pressed a kiss to his temple. “ _Un poci-ti-ti-ti-i-i-…_ Imelda _…._ ” He managed to find the table, the guitar twanging as he set it down before reaching behind him. “Imelda—”

“ _Mi amor_ ,” she crooned, moving to stand beside him, smiling that terrible, lovely smirk. Oh yes, she knew exactly what she was doing. _Crafty, beautiful—_ “What do you need?”

“Sit with me—” He managed to grab her skirts, tugging her towards him and tangling his fingers in the soft folds of her dress. “Just a while, just a little while—” She let herself be drawn down onto his knee, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Now what?” she teased, playing with the hair just above his spine. He shivered, drawing her closer before kissing every single mark on her face, even the little dots beneath her eye sockets. It always made her laugh, and this was no exception. “That tickles!”

“ _Perdóname_.” He traced up her spine with one finger, delighting in the little shudder she gave. She’d been giving him signs all along; maybe he could be bold. In any case, she had to get up to throw a shoe at him. “How about this, instead?” He dipped his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. She gasped, fingers tightening in his hair when he reached her sternum.

“Héctor…” The longing note in her voice made him pause. “Don’t stop.” He looked up, and when their eyes met he saw something in them he’d never thought he’d see again, not from her.

“You want me?” he whispered, one finger tracing the underside of her first rib. She shivered helplessly, a soft moan escaping on her exhale. “Imelda?” A huff of impatience.

“You ought to have known that already, _músico_.” She traced the designs on his cheek, little tremors running through his bones with every sweep of her finger. He caught her hand and kissed her palm.

“I _might_ have known,” he mumbled, nuzzling into her fingers. “But I want you to tell me anyway.”

“Tell you…?”

“What do you want?” She stiffened, glancing again to the stairs. “Worried someone might see?” Now it was his turn to tease.

“This isn’t very proper—”

“You started it.” She frowned down at him. “ _Mi amor._ ”

“Tch.” He slid his finger down her ribs, tracing the low collar of her dress and delighting in the way she squirmed on his lap. “Héctor!”

“Hmm?” He blinked up innocently. “You know I’d do anything for you, _cariño_. You need only ask.” She rolled her eyes at his syrupy tone, but brushed the bangs from his forehead to kiss it gently.

“ _Tócame_.” She kissed him again. “ _Besame_.”

“If you insist.”


End file.
